Illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had

everything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a

good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she

should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a

little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of

Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother,

but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of

'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.'

Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for

Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as

she could control herself. But there came a time when during the

fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on

the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with

a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she

did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by

wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew

frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even

Hannah said she 'would think of it, though there was no danger

yet'. A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr.

March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a

long while.

How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house,

and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and

waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home.

Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often

on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious

than any luxuries money could buy--in love, protection, peace, and

health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in

the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before

her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to

see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep

and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the

worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make

home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may

possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth,

or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that

she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or

Irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected

tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house

like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because

he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to

make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman,

baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs. Hummel

came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroud

for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes,

and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many

friends shy little Beth had made.

Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for

even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She

longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they

should get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety

about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother

that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to

try to say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him.

But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay

hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her

lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment.

Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a

telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo

never stirred from Beth's side.

The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a

bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready

for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at

Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it

gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can

leave her husband she'd better be sent for."

Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously,

Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of

her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale

face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and

throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon

back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in

with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read